This made me wonder whether the whole thing was cleverly orchestrated. She was, after all, an actress, and as I had found out from past experience, actresses can be horribly duplicitous. Perhaps the breakup was all part of the plan so that no suspicion would fall on her, should there be an inquiry. When the dust settled, Anson would quietly go back to her.
The other scenario would be that he had decided that a better future lay with Bella. Maybe he and she had arranged the poisoning together—he conveniently out of town, she visiting as the loyal friend and slipping some kind of poison into the water glass or whatever when nobody was looking. Again I realized that this was all a complete waste of my time. Fanny was buried and was not likely to be exhumed without the clearest of proof. The doctor had signed the death certificate. Everyone was satisfied. The police weren’t about to investigate. It looked as if Anson, and possibly Bella, had pulled off the perfect crime.
So what next? Did I let it lie, put it behind me, and look for my next case? I could visit Bella, of course, but to what end? I knew she had gone to see Fanny and Dorcas. I could hardly get her to confess that she had slipped poison into either of their drinks. I probably couldn’t even get her to confess that she was more than friendly with Anson.
I could also look into the death of Honoria Masters, although this would be harder, as I had never met her and had no idea where she lived. And the opera house would be dark tonight. I’d have to wait until tomorrow and see if I could entice the stage-door keeper into divulging Honoria’s address.
Suddenly I felt overwhelmed and tired. I thought of Sid and Gus and their lifestyle: their exotic meals, their poetry readings and art galleries, their circle of interesting if unorthodox friends. It seemed so desirable compared to my life. For once, being Mrs. Daniel Sullivan and having time to hold tea parties and soirees also seemed desirable.
I turned into Patchin Place, my thoughts on a cup of tea, my armchair, and a good book. Maybe even a little nap. But I was just turning the key in my front door when a voice yelled, “There she is. She’s home. See, I told you she’d turn up.” And there was my playwright friend Ryan O’Hare bursting out of Sid and Gus’s house. He was surprisingly not wearing his usual romantic poet garb, but was dressed in what seemed to be yachting attire.
“You arrived home at the perfect moment,” he said. “Sid and Gus told me they hadn’t seen you in days and they suspected you might have gone away, but here you are, so all is well.”
“Are you about to embark on a cruise?” I asked him.
“No, my dear, I am whisking you all away for an evening of fun and debauchery aboard my friend’s yacht. We’re sailing up the Hudson and taking a picnic. So hurry up and change out of that awful black thing. You look like Queen Victoria mourning for Albert.”
I had to laugh. “I’ve been paying respects at the house of a recent death.”
“My dear, if I ever die, I positively forbid you to come to my funeral looking like that. I should turn in my grave, I know I should. Or in my coffin before I’m put into my grave.”
Sid and Gus had now joined him, carrying a large picnic basket between them. Sid was wearing bloomers, Gus a navy outfit with nautical theme.
“You’ll notice that it is Ryan who arranges a picnic and we who have to prepare the darned thing,” Sid said dryly.
“Ah, but it is I who am supplying the yacht.” Ryan beamed at us.
I looked at Gus and Sid.
“His new friend,” Sid mouthed. “Pots of money.”
“And he’s divine,” Ryan added. “You’ll see. You’ll fall madly in love with him.”
“Not that that would do us any good,” Gus remarked.
I laughed and ran inside to change. I felt positively energized. How long since I had laughed or had fun or gone on a picnic? My tiredness was completely forgotten. Soon we were casting off from one of the Hudson piers and sailing languidly up the Hudson on a boat that was sleek, teak, and half the size of the Majestic. I sat on the deck, sipping Champagne, nibbling smoked salmon sandwiches and watching the Palisades slip past me. The last time I had seen them was at Fanny’s funeral. How strange life was, I thought. Someone like Fanny should have had a whole life of fun and ease and luxury to look forward to, just like the other people on this yacht, who were now dancing madly to a syncopated ragtime tune. Such a waste.